


The Hangar

by janescott



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M, community kink_bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-27
Updated: 2010-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-11 06:43:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janescott/pseuds/janescott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: For my kink_bingo free square: http://janescott.livejournal.com/3955.html#cutid1 I've used "suspension" for the prompt for it. Beta'd by magenta</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hangar

Adam had thought the club was an urban legend. A bondage club with wealthy enough backers to approach celebrities and offer them a fee to perform for select clientele.

But when an invitation – a _real_ invitation, printed on heavy, expensive paper, comes through the mail with his name elegantly written on the front, and a discrete, but perfectly rendered tiny rope logo printed in the corner, he knows it's real.

The invite is for him alone, and the club moves around, so he makes careful note of the address, before calling Lane. The invitation might be for him to come alone, but Adam knows that he's going to need Lane's help to get there – and out – without being caught by cameras.

It's to Lane's credit that she doesn't eve blink when he tells her where he's going. She just arranges a car, and a discreet driver, and tells him to have fun.

Well. Okay. Adam dresses down – as far down as he ever does, anyway, and manages to completely ignore the slight tremble in his hand as he applies his eyeliner. He also ignores the fact that he has to reapply it three times – something he hasn't needed to do in years.

Whoever is performing at The Hangar tonight, is someone that the club owners think Adam will want to see.

He finally gets his liner right; then just a little gloss on his lips. Black jeans; black shirt and a few necklaces and rings and he's ready to go. He's not especially surprised to find that Lane has decided to drive him herself.

"I couldn't trust anyone else," she says, pulling up to a dark, unassuming door, set well back from the street. There's no doorman; no bouncer, and Adam digs into the pocket of his jeans for the key that came with the invitation.

"Call me when – or if – you need a ride home," Lane says. Adam nods, and turns the key over in his hand, his earlier nervousness coming back full force.

Taking a steadying breath, Adam makes his way to the door and slides the key in, missing the tumbler a couple of times before it catches, the snick loud in the quiet night.

He opens the door and stands for a moment in the dark, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

"Mr Lambert? Follow me." Adam blinks as a young woman appears seemingly out of nowhere, and leads him down the short, dark hallway to another door.

Part of him appreciates the theatricality of the whole thing. The rest of him almost wants to flee, but he follows his … usher? Into the club itself.

It's not much to look at, on the surface, and Adam's vaguely disappointed at first before realising the club's mobile nature means that extraneous details like interior design are impractical and superfluous. Tonight, The Hangar is a faded old theatre - shabby velvet seats and a scuffed and splintered stage.

Adam thinks he might have done a show here once.

There are about 50 people in the room, already seated, and Adam knows without studying their faces that he would recognise every single one of them.

His usher leads him to a seat in the front, and hands him a small envelope. She smiles and says, "Enjoy the show."

Adam settles in his seat, self-conscious as he stretches his legs out in front of him, trying very hard not to notice who he's sitting next to. To distract himself, he opens the envelope and takes out a small, gold card. There's nothing on it, but Adam's heard enough rumours about The Hangar to know what it means: it's an invitation backstage after the show.

The theatre lights go down, and there's a whisper of anticipation through the crowd as a spotlight – harsh and white – lights up the stage.

It's bare, still, apart from two people. One guy is fully dressed; bulky and muscular. He has lengths of blue-green rope hanging from his hand, and he stares out over the audience, his face impassive.

The other man on the stage … Adam stares and bites his lip as a ripple of shock runs through the supposedly jaded audience.

Well. Adam fingers his gold card and stares, silent and absolutely fascinated, as the un-named man with the ropes starts demonstrating Shibari bondage – on the very naked and very well-made form of Johnny Weir.

 

Adam's mouth goes dry as all the blood in his body rushes south, making his suddenly hard dick press against the zipper of his jeans and jesus, fuck that _hurts_.

The demonstrator actually makes the ropes as well as being an expert in the art, and it's not long before Johnny's lean, pale torso is criss-crossed with knots and lines. Johnny's legs remain bare, and Adam's eyes are drawn from the ropes to his thighs, tight with muscles and his fingers twitch with wanting to know what those smooth muscles feel like under his hands.

 

There's a harness or something hanging down behind them, but Adam doesn't notice it until the demonstrator leads Johnny – now bound up in a complex series of knots - to it and somehow attaches the harness to the ropes; signaling someone backstage.

 

There's a collective gasp from the small audience when the harness is raised above the stage. Johnny stretches out, his arms and legs extending, making his bound torso stand out even more. His eyes are closed, his neck arched, and … Adam ventures a look. He's hard.

 

Adam's impressions of the demonstration soon blur into impressions of Johnny flying, surrounded by bright ropes and long, dangling silk scarves that drop down from the ceiling.

 

Adam idly fantasises about fucking Johnny in the harness; the ropes digging into his skin … he shifts uncomfortably in his seat and wonders how long the demonstration is going to last. Just as he's debating whether the people on either side of him would notice if he pressed his hand against his fly – just once – the demonstrator announces that the show is over.

 

Ushers appear to start quietly leading the audience out – everyone but himself, Adam notices. The same usher as before approaches him and says quietly, "If you would follow me …"

 

It takes him a minute to stand, and his dick is fucking _throbbing_ because it refuses to go down, but the usher just waits, and finally leads him backstage to a small, shabby dressing-room.

 

Johnny is there, with the guy who gave the demonstration. He's carefully – almost tenderly – untying the knots and removing the ropes from around Johnny's torso. Johnny's eyes are half-closed and he looks like a blissed-out pure-bred cat: all long lines and lazy satisfaction. He's still naked, and still hard, Adam notes, from where he's leaning against the door; feeling strangely like he's intruding on an intimate moment, but unable to look away.

 

The demonstrator – Adam never did find out the guy's name – whispers something in Johnny's ear as he uncoils the last of the rope. Adam stares at the red marks now criss-crossing Johnny's torso, and bites his bottom lip hard to stop the moan that's been building for most of the night from escaping.

 

The demonstrator claps Adam on the shoulder on his way out of the room, making Adam jump. "Sorry. Everyone reacts differently after these things. He asked for you, because he said to me you'd be able to give him what he needs. Just go with it, and I'll be in the next room along – shout if you need me."

 

Adam nods, his mouth sand-dry as he sits down on the ratty armchair in the corner of the room, unable to take his eyes off the marks on Johnny's skin.

 

"Are you – all right? What do you - _oh_."

 

Johnny looks at Adam for the first time when he speaks, and blinks once, twice, slowly, as though he's just realised where he is. He moves slowly, as though he's pushing through the air, and Adam's about to offer to get up and help when Johnny drops to his knees in front of Adam, and splays his hands on his thighs.

 

"Oh," Adam says again, his mind almost blank.

 

"May I?" Johnny asks, the first words he's spoken; his voice soft. Adam can't stop his eyes tracking the red marks left behind by the ropes; over and over with his eyes. He reaches out to trace a line over Johnny's shoulder and says, "Yes." His voice comes out high and tight; his tongue feels too big for his mouth.

 

Johnny gives him a look from under his eyelashes – somehow sultry and … submissive all at once, and goes to work on Adam's zipper, finally freeing his hard cock.

 

Adam tips his head back against the chair and swears softly. He closes his eyes as he feels Johnny's mouth engulf his cock, because he's not going to last at all if he watches. He traces the red lines left by the rope over and over again as Johnny starts sucking in earnest; his mouth hot and wet and tight.

 

He doesn't last long anyway, one hand tangled in Johnny's hair, and one digging into the marks on his shoulder that feel like they're burning a brand into Adam's hand. He comes hard, his eyes squeezed tight shut, wondering if he's finally fallen down the rabbit hole, as he hears himself give Johnny permission to come.


End file.
